Variations On The Word Love
by Celesteennui
Summary: "This is a word we use to plug holes with." —Margaret Atwood. Familial, platonic, romantic, parental—Love has a thousand faces. Vignettes of Elissa Cousland; warrior, Warden, commander, and Hero of Ferelden, as seen through the eyes of those who love her, in no particular order. Same universe as "I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You."
1. Morrigan: I See My Sister

**Disclaimer**

Bioware owns everything; I'm just pissing around with the toys they loaned me. Reviews are nice

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The first time that Morrigan spies Elissa, she is in the skin of a fox hiding beneath a bramble thatch slickened with entrails. Of Darkspawn, wilder, or soldier, she does not know, nor does it concern her. All that Morrigan cares for is the small band that is carving a decent path through the Korcari and its tainted interlopers. In particular, she finds herself fascinated with the one confidently taking point as they roam, the only woman in the number.

At first, she can only tell that it's a woman by the scent that her fox-nose picks up. Dressed in plate with protective helmet, this warrior woman moves like a man. Well, mostly. A _capable man_ would be a more apt description, rare as they are. She is careful, confident without the swagger and bravado men must use lest their fellows doubt the equipment packed into their smallclothes.

This woman is not here for a pissing contest as her fellows are, or well, two of them at least. She leans against a tree while the thief bickers with the knight and their leader—_if _the man-child chaperoning them can even be called such—pacifies them. When she finally deigns to speak there is purpose in her voice, command. Hefting the unwieldy looking two-handed sword she uses with practiced ease, the warrior woman turns from her surprised companions and takes point again. Her companions stare at her back for a few moments, slack-jawed little boys that they are, before they scurry to keep up.

Loathe as she is to admit it, Morrigan is quite impressed with this one, and she finds herself suddenly willing to greet them in the ruins as Mother directed. It is a willingness that is rewarded with disdain, mistrust, and anger. From the men.

When Morrigan addresses her, the other woman respectfully removes her helmet. The object of her curiosity, Morrigan finds, is pale, much like herself, and also like herself, the warrior has hair is as dark as the Wilds beneath the moon. Albeit it is much shorter and matted with sweat. Her features are mostly unremarkable; she is no great beauty but Morrigan would certainly not call her unattractive if other women held her sexual attentions. There _is_ something special about the warrior's eyes, though. They're clear, bright, and steady; Morrigan can't recall ever seeing a shade of blue so vivid anywhere but the sky.

But the look of this woman means very little. It is her manner that intrigues Morrigan, or rather, _continues_ to intrigue Morrigan, for while her sniveling cadre of boys warn and whimper, the warrior makes up her own mind. A smile graces the other woman's lips, it is polite but also genuine—as adept as Morrigan is at the game of lies, she _knows_ the difference between vapid courtesy and what is sent in truth.

"I am Elissa. A pleasure to meet you."

Morrigan is no seer and yet she knows that her life has just started to change.


	2. Eleanor: Pretty Is Cheap

**Disclaimer**

Bioware owns everything; I'm just pissing around with the toys they loaned me. Reviews are nice

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Eleanor Cousland cannot count the times that she has been called "beautiful", "lovely", or "striking" over the years. There's little to no pride attached to such a thought because, quite honestly, unless it is her husband saying those things, they have no meaning. Terms for her attractiveness are relative anyway; Bryce married her for her deft hand with a bow, her mind, and the way she could send a man running with just a flag of her eyebrow.

It rattles something in her, then, when her daughter asks what should be seven innocuous little words, "Will I be pretty one day, Mother?

They're hosting the High Summer festival for the local nobility as they do every year and it is Elissa's first venture mingling amongst the banns since her Name Day ceremony five years past. Though, this one counts a little more, perhaps, given she'd been a newborn then.

It's early in the evening yet, the sun is low but a far cry from sinking. Their family is sitting at the high table watching the "Maiden Dance", the customary twirling about of the highborn girls presented to court that year.

An awful sight they aren't, Eleanor has to admit. If one is interested in ruffling pastel skirts, giggling girls who've yet learned to paint their faces with a subtle brush, and over-done Orlesian perfume.

Always inquisitive, Elissa has never before needed reassurance on how she looks. That's the wonderful thing about children, how they don't care to be covered in mud or if their shoes match. It's an innocence Eleanor longs to protect but protection isn't what her little girl needs now; she needs something far more substantial than a mother's indolent reassurance.

If she's being honest, Eleanor knows that Elissa won't be "pretty", not by conventional standards. A tall thing already, she sees her daughter years down the road, big boned and broad shouldered. They way that she scraps with the boys there will be scars; many, _many_ scars. A lady-to-be doesn't sit in her lap, though perhaps a leader does. The little black haired thing with Bryce's enormous blue eyes curled against her is going to be a warrior. That much Eleanor has known since the first feisty kick she felt behind her navel. And warriors are seldom "pretty".

While the words to express this _feel_ at first as if they will be difficult to find at first, her tongue (her heart?) somehow knows them already.

"The word pretty is unworthy of anything and everything that you will ever be, my darling." She cups Elissa's chin with her fingers to make sure that these words sink deep. She shouldn't have been concerned about that, if nothing else, her daughter has always been smart enough to listen. "No daughter of mine will be contained in five letters. You will be _pretty intelligent_, _pretty resourceful_, _pretty amazing_. But you will never, ever, be merely 'pretty', my love."

Slowly, very slowly, a smile spreads across Elissa's pale face and one more disparagement for the word "pretty" pops into her head, though she doesn't voice it. These words remained tucked forever against her heart.

"Pretty" is unworthy of her daughter because Elissa is _beautiful_ even if her face and figure never reflect such her soul will radiate that truth aplenty.

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This bit was inspired by a speech by Katie Makkie, whom you should look up.


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